Chapter 6 - THE RAT AT THE COMMISSARY
At 11:00 PM, the neon sign of Il Miracolo was dark.
Inside the basement commissary beneath the kitchen, Dominic Vance was frantically shoving thick stacks of hundred-dollar bills into a leather duffel bag.
Beside him sat an open steel wall safe and a burner phone displaying an unread text message:
THE BOSS FOUND THE TRUCK. AIRPORT RUN NOW.
Dominic zipped the bag, his hands shaking so violently he nearly dropped his keys.
He turned toward the concrete stairs leading to the alley exit.
Standing at the base of the stairs, half-submerged in the shadows of the brick archway, was Julian Thorne.
Beside him stood Raymond Caldwell and six operators in black tactical jackets.
Dominic froze.
The duffel bag slipped from his fingers, hitting the concrete floor with a heavy, muffled thud.
Every drop of blood fled from Dominic’s face, leaving his skin translucent and slick with sweat:
“Mr... Mr. Thorne... what are you doing here? The restaurant is closed—I was just securing the weekly cash drop—!”
Julian did not draw a weapon.
He walked down the final two steps with slow, measured, crushing strides.
He reached into his overcoat and tossed an object across the concrete.
FLUTTER.
The charcoal sketch landed at Dominic’s feet, the red scorpion insignia glowing beneath the dim utility light.
Dominic looked down.
He began to tremble so violently that his knees struck the metal shelving behind him:
“Julian... please... listen to me! Marcus Cole—he threatened my family! He said if I didn't box in the limousine, they would burn my mother’s house in Staten Island!”
Julian stopped two feet from him.
He towered over the manager, his eyes burning with an unsparing, glacial judgment that made Dominic drop to his knees on the filthy concrete:
“You watched my son cry in this restaurant for six months, Dominic,” Julian whispered.
His voice was terrifyingly calm—the sound of an iron cell door sliding shut forever:
“You poured my wine while my wife’s blood was still on your bumper.”
Dominic sobbed, clawing at Julian’s polished leather shoes:
“I didn't pull the trigger! I swear to God, Julian! It was Marcus Cole! He’s meeting the cartel buyers at the Red Hook terminal at midnight to finalize the shipping port buyout!”
Julian stepped back, his expression stripped of every trace of human pity:
“Raymond.”
“Yes, Julian?”
“Take Dominic to the federal prosecutor's safe house in Lower Manhattan. Deliver his signed deposition to the United States Attorney along with this drawing.”
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Julian looked down at the weeping traitor:
“And inform Marcus Cole that his shipment at Red Hook has arrived.”
